


15 days of crossovers

by fangirl_squee



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: 15 Days of FatT, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee
Summary: Inspired by the question from the Partizan post mortem about characters from different seasons meeting, it's 15 days of crossover fics for 15 Days of FatT 2021
Relationships: Adaire Ducarte/Adelaide Tristé/Hella Varal, Belgard/⸢Signet⸣ (Friends at the Table), Cassander Timaeus Berenice/Mako Trig, Fero Feritas/Samol, Hadrian/Rosana (Friends at the Table), Kal'mera Broun/Valence, Kent Brighton/Gig Kephart
Comments: 38
Kudos: 25





	1. fashion (signet & adaire)

“What about this one?” says Signet.

Adaire hums. “It’s nice.” She examines the fabric, discreetly checking the price tag. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well I  _ do  _ know,” says Signet. “The colour will suit you very well.”

Adaire agrees, of course, but even without a full understanding of how money works in this strange world she can tell the fabric is overpriced and it’s the principal of the thing. Instead of a reply, she turns back towards the row of fabric, pulling out a glimmering fabric.

“For you?” offers Adaire. “It matches-it would contrast well, with your wife.”

The wording is a little clumsy perhaps but Signet smiles all the same, a flicker of warmth across her features. Adaire thinks of Adelaide, something sharp jolting through her chest.

“I believe you’re right,” says Signet, “But in that case allow me to choose something to match both of yours.”

She begins flicking through the fabric samples before Adaire can stop her, pulling out a handful of options. She plucks the glimmering fabric Adaire is holding from her and adds it to the pile, gesturing to get the attention of one of the shop attendants.

“Please put these on my account,” says Signet, “and let Bertin know that we are ready for her.”

They nod, gathering the fabric in their arms and hurrying them towards the back of the shop.

“You don’t need to do that,” says Adaire, bracing herself for fake confusion or, worse, pity.

Instead Signet tilts her head slightly. “I know I don’t, but I will.”

“They marked scars of light in pitch; born in fiercest purpose, and beheld as the signet sealed upon our pact?” says the attendant, “Bertin is ready for you and your companion.”

“Thank you,” says Signet. She touches Adaire lightly on the arm. “If you’d  _ really _ rather not, I won’t force you but… you deserve to have something nice without it being a battle.”

Their hands are very different, but for some reason it makes Adaire think of Hella. It’s the sort of thing Hella might say to her, the sort of thing that made Adaire want to look away, her throat aching for a moment before she could find the words. Adaire swallows down the memory.

Bertin is a round-faced woman with greying hair piled high on her head and a wide dress made of plain but expensive-looking fabric. She bows to Signet, and Signet inclines her head in greeting.

“I understand you are looking for new garments to be made?” says Bertin.

“Yes,” says Signet, “I-  _ we _ have an event to attend.”

“Ah,” says Bertin conspiratorially, “Mx Fourteen and Ms Sky’s wedding.”

There’s something in her tone that reminds Adaire so of the old Velas markets. It’s oddly comforting to know that no matter where she might find herself, the gossipy nature of a market remains unchanged.

“Adaire first,” says Signet, “I was thinking something similar to the dress you made for Sho recently, with the bodice?”

“Of course,” says Bertin, signalling to her attendants.

Adaire is a proficient seamstress herself, and has never had the inclination to use someone else’s services. She watches carefully as Bertin and her attendants place and pin the fabric around her body, measuring and noting each piece. She looks at herself in the mirror, trying to picture the rich fabric overlaid and finished on her body. It will look nice, she supposes, a silver bodice with a skirt and sleeves of blue silk.

Signet relaxes back in one of the plush chairs nearby, chatting as easily with Bertin as she does with the attendants. She stands gracefully when it is her turn, letting herself be wrapped in the glimmering fabric.

“What?” says Signet.

“Nothing,” says Adaire, “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

Adaire presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Wives.”

Signet glances at her reflection, a smile hovering at the corners of her lips as she takes in the sight of her body, cocooned in fabric.

“Yes,” says Signet, “I can see what you mean.”

“We will have a test of them later today, if you can spare the time?” says Bertin.

“That fast?” says Adaire.

“For Signet, that fast,” says Bertin.

Signet smiles, her hand lingering on the woman’s shoulder for a moment as she steps down from the platform.

Signet takes her to tea for much of the rest of the afternoon, relaxing back as easily on the low cushions of the tea house as she had in the plush chair of the dressmaker’s fitting room. Adaire shifts, trying to find a position that’s comfortable as well as appropriate in so fine a setting.

Signet takes a sip of her tea. “I do not expect you to pay me back.”

Adaire’s hand freezes where it’s hovering over the plate of biscuits. 

“For the dresses,” says Signet. “Or for this, for that matter. This is a gift, without strings.”

“If you say so,” says Adaire, trying to keep her voice mild.

“I do,” says Signet, “Not everything has to come with a price.” She tilts her head. “Or perhaps if it makes you feel better, you could think of a price you have already paid? I’m sure there are some things in your life for which you are still owed.”

Adaire takes a sip of her own tea to cover her expression, trying not to think about Hella or Adelaide, universes apart from her in this moment.

“See?” says Signet, her voice soft, “This is nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing,” says Adaire, her voice a little strained.

Signet reaches forward, putting her hand over Adaire’s. “No, perhaps not.”

She squeezes Adaire’s hand once before letting go, sitting back to take another sip of tea and looking out towards the other patrons, giving Adaire a moment to compose herself.

The dresses, even unfinished, and beautiful. Signet’s gown clings to her as though she were covered in starlight, trailing behind her like a river. Adaire touches the collar of her own dress, running her fingers along the pearls which almost certainly weren’t on the fabric during the fitting.

“I hope you do not mind,” says Bertin, “When I was putting it together, something called to me.”

_ Adelaide _ , Adaire thinks, swallowing down the thought.

“It’s fine,” says Adaire, “I like it.”

When she finds her way back, slipping to the Rhizome via Polyphony, she takes the dress with her.


	2. sanctuary (hadrian & millie)

The church is always quiet, this early in the morning. That’s part of why Hadrian starts his day there, rising before Rosana morning to make sure things are set up for the day’s services before he walks back up the small path to their house. He likes getting things in order in the quiet, opening the windows to let in the air and setting out water for the day’s visitors. It’s solitary work, but he quite likes that too, a moment a reflection before the day starts to fill with people.

Today, though, there’s already someone there asleep on one of the pews, a shock of aquamarine hair flopping over the collar of her black leather garments. The woman on the pew keeps her eyes shut but her body tenses, a sure sign of pretense. Hadrian thinks, briefly, of his sword, hanging by his door at home before he sets the thought aside.

Instead, he pours water into one of the little tin cups Throndir sent him as a housewarming gift and holds it out.

“Good morning,” says Hadrian.

The woman cracks an eye open, making a face as she sits up. Hadrian steps forward with the cup, trying to keep his movements slow and easy. She’s not the first weary traveller they’ve had sneak in through their doors after hours and she’s unlikely to be the last. She has the same look as the others do though, tired and wary from time spent out in the wilds of the Rhizome.

“It’s just water,” says Hadrian, “I’m sure you could use some.”

After a moment, she takes it. “Thanks.”

Hadrian smiles, pouring himself a drink from the same water jug and taking a sip. An old battlefield negotiation tactic, eating part of the thing you offered to show it wasn’t poisoned. The woman takes a drink, taking small sips.

“You know,” says Hadrian, “We’re not technically open yet-”

“Sorry,” says the woman, “I didn’t think- I didn’t break anything.”

“It would have been fine if you had,” says Hadrian, “All things do, in time. But what I was going to say was that we’re not technically open, and so you’re welcome to come back up to the house with me to get breakfast.”

The woman blinks. “I, uh- What?”

“If you don’t eat, you are welcome to use one of our beds to sleep on,” says Hadrian, “It’s much more comfortable than a wooden pew.”

“Who doesn’t  _ eat _ ?” says the woman.

“Some people,” says Hadrian easily, “I don’t want to presume.”

“I… do eat,” says the woman.

“Great,” says Hadrian, “There’s just one condition.”

The woman’s shoulders slump slightly. “What?”

“Well my wife likes me to be able to introduce people when I bring them into our home,” says Hadrian, “So I’d like to know your name.”

The fins on the sides of the woman’s face flutter. “Oh, right, I’m Millie.”

Hadrian holds out his hand. “I’m Hadrian.”

She clasps his forearm, a warrior’s grip. Hadrian nods, smiling as she lets go.

“So,” says Hadrian, as he leads them out of the small chapel and back towards the house, “What brings you out this way?”

“Nothing in particular,” says Millie, “Just- travelling. You know how it is.”

“I used to,” says Hadrian, “Nowadays I leave exploration to my son and his partner. I’ve had enough adventuring for more than a few lifetimes.”

Millie huffs a laugh. “Yeah I know what you mean. I’m not really looking for adventure out there.”

“Oh?” says Hadrian, “Then what are you looking for?”

“Back already my lo- oh, hello,” says Rosana, wiping her hands on her apron as she steps out of their small kitchen. “I didn’t know we were expecting a visitor today.”

“Neither did I, but we have one,” says Hadrian. “This is Millie. Millie, this is my wife Rosana.”

“I assume you’re joining us for breakfast?” says Rosana.

Millie’s eyes dart to Hadrian. “I- is that okay?”

“Of course,” says Rosana, “Although I can’t promise anything fancy I’m afraid.”

“I definitely don’t need anything fancy,” says Millie. “Did you… need any help?”

“I don’t, as it’s not my turn to cook,” says Rosana, grinning at Hadrian.

Hadrian laughs, dropping a kiss to Rosana’s forehead as he steps past her into the kitchen.

“Well I won’t say no to an extra pair of hands,” says Hadrian. “Do you have much experience in the kitchen?”

“Not really,” says Millie, “mostly just mess hall type stuff, y’know, stand here, stir this…”

“That’s pretty much all you need to know,” says Hadrian.

Rosana laughs. “Oh really?”

“Well, for what I do it is,” says Hadrian.

Rosana’s eyes go soft as she smiles at him. “Very early in the day for such outrageous lies.”

Hadrian huffs a laugh. “We both know you’re the real cooking talent in this house.”

Rosana waves a hand. “Flatterer.”

“For you? Absolutely,” says Hadrian. He catches Millie’s eyes on them and flushes, turning back towards the kitchen as he clears his throat. “Well, I’d better get on with it, ah, Millie?”

“Sure,” says Millie, amusement curling through her tone.

Their kitchen is smaller than the one they once had in Velas, but serviceable, the high benches Fero made for them are tall enough that neither of them had to bend while they’re chopping vegetables or kneading bread.

“We got eggs fresh just yesterday,” says Hadrian, glancing at Millie out of the corner of his eye. “Is that something you can eat?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I  _ can’t _ eat,” says Millie.

It sounds so much like something Hella would say, hunched over their eighth day of rations on some long march, that Hadrian laughs. Millie gives him a tentative smile in return. 

He gets out the mushrooms, a gift from Ben and Blue J when they last stopped by, and sets Millie to chopping them as he slices the bread, heating two small pans on their stovetop - one for the bread and one for the eggs. They work in companionable silence for a short while, the quiet sound of Rosana turning a page in her book drifting in through the door.

“So,” says Hadrian, “Where are you travelling to?”

MIllie pauses. “I don’t really know yet. Just trying to… I don’t know. Get some distance, I guess. Find a place that feels safe enough to set up.”

He thinks of Hella again, branches away from him now but happy and safe. Neither of them are particularly skilled writers, but he can feel the comfort of her life on the page.

“Yeah, I have a friend who was doing that for a while too,” says Hadrian, “Sick of fighting and-” He waves a hand. “-everything else that comes with it.”

Millie pauses. “So what happened to her?”

Hadrian shrugs, keeping his tone casual. “Eventually she found a place, settled down with her wives. Got kids, got a dog. I don’t get out to see her as much as when we were on the road together but… She writes, sends baked goods down our way, we send her bread back.”

“Must be a big change to live like that,” says Millie.

There’s something in her voice that makes Hadrian swallow around the lump in his throat. He suddenly wants to, the way he hasn’t in years, pull Ben and Rosana into a tight hug and hold them there for as long as they’ll let him.

“It is,” says Hadrian, “But it’s… everything changes, eventually, and not always for the worse.” He clears his throat. “I think these eggs are done, how’s the toast looking?”

“Yeah, I think it’s done,” says Millie.

They carefully divide up the portions to three plates. Hadrian catches Millie’s gaze and she swallows.

“I was just… y’know, wondering - that friend of yours, with the wives-”

Hadrian presses his lips together to stifle a laugh. He imagines Hella would  _ love _ that description.

“Does she-” Millie wrinkles her nose. “Nevermind.”

“No, what?”

“It’s stupid,” says Millie, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” says Hadrian. He pauses. “You know, I might have a favour to ask of you after this.”

“I thought you only needed my name for your wife?” says Millie, her light tone not enough to disguise the way her shoulders tightened.

“Just a small thing,” says Hadrian, “I have a letter for my friend- the one with the wives, actually. Since you’re travelling I was wondering if you could take it with you?”

“I- are you sure?” says Millie, “I mean, you just met me.”

“I have pretty good instincts about who I can trust,” says Hadrian, “Besides, I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

Millie ducks her head, smiling a little as she carries her plate out of the kitchen. Hadrian follows, setting a plate down in front of Rosana. She smiles at him, squeezing his hand before they eat, their own private prayer.

After this, he has a letter to write.


	3. cut loose (millie & mako)

Millie pushes through the glass doors onto the balcony, moving quietly so that she doesn’t draw attention to herself. She’s always hated these things, the layers of outdated Apostalisian formality adding  _ hours  _ onto every event. I would be excruciating even if the event itself weren’t to celebrate war. As though it had ever brought joy to anyone like her.

She pulls out a cigarette. She’ll give herself a minute, maybe two, and then she’ll go back out and pretend that she loves to be there. Her focus is so narrow as she tries to light the cigarette that she doesn’t notice as a small blue figure steps out of the shadows.

“Can I borrow your light?”

Millie spins, her hand going to her empty holster as her body moves before her mind remembers that she surrendered all her weapons at the door (well, the ones the scans could pick up at least). She blinks, her muscles relaxing as she takes in the young man before her - blue skin, a shock of pale hair, a poorly-rolled cigarette in his hand and, most reassuringly, clothing that marks him as  _ absolutely not _ with the Apostalisian military.

“Depends,” says Millie, gathering herself, “Who are you?”

“Mako,” says the man, “I’m, uh, kind of someone’s plus one, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

Mako wrinkles his nose. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated like…”

“I didn’t break in!” says Mako, “I  _ have _ an invitation-” He pats his pockets. “Or, uh, maybe Cass has it. Anyway, the point is, I’m allowed to be here.”

“Not on this balcony,” says Millie, “It’s restricted access.”

That was why she’d chosen it, obviously. Better a minor infraction notice later than even one more minute of hearing some general worship at the feet of the GLORY program.

“Then why are you out here?” says Mako.

“I’m… taking a break.”

Mako tilts his head to the side. “You don’t look like the other security doofuses.”

Millie snorts. “Thanks.”

She flicks the lighter, using her other hand to shield it from the wind as Mako leans forward. He lights the cigarette clumsily, although it’s hard to tell if it’s inexperience on his part or if how badly he’s managed to roll it is making it difficult to light. She presses her lips together to suppress a laugh, taking a drag of her own cigarette and trying to hold it out of the wind.

“So,” says Millie, “if you’re a plus one-”

“I am!”

“-how’d your one get invited to this thing?” continues Millie, “No offence, but you don’t exactly seem like the usual military husband.”

Mako’s laugh is a brighter sound than she usually hears at these things.

“Thanks!” says Mako, “And I dunno, some kind of family obligation thing I think. They don’t normally have to go but-” He presses his lips together cutting himself off. “Some family thing happened, I guess.”

“Sounds… complicated,” says Millie, trying for polite.

“Ohmygod, it’s  _ so _ complicated and  _ weird _ ,” says Mako, leaning over the balcony in an exaggerated show of exhaustion. He glances back at her. “Not the Apostalisian thing, I mean, the like, royal family thing.”

“What royal- oh my god,” says Millie, as several  _ very  _ colourful tabloid stories about the wayward Apostalisian Prince Cassander come back to her. “You-” She clears her throat. “Yeah, that would be weird.”

“I mean it’s not  _ bad _ ,” says Mako, “It’s just…”

“Complicated?” offers Millie.

Mako points at her, his cigarette flicking ash wildly with the movement. “ _ Exactly _ ! So I thought, y’know, I’d give them a break from it being complicated for a minute, and come out here. I mean, I’m sure they’d be cool with it, since you’re like, security or whatever.”

“Right,” says Millie, desperately trying to remember what other lies she’s told to the (reportedly) almost-prince-consort.

It could be stretched to the truth, after all, they were always saying that GLORY was working towards the safety and security of Apostolos.

“So,” says Millie, “Shouldn’t you have, like, a bodyguard with you. Y’know, given..” She waves a hand.

“They’re with Cass,” says Mako, wrinkling his nose, “I mean, they probably don’t even notice I’m not there. It’s not like we were dancing or anything, even though I  _ asked _ and they were all like  _ I don’t want to draw people’s attention Mako, that’s not what tonight is about Mako _ .”

Mako lets out a breath, the smoke curling in front of his face for a moment before it’s blown away by the wind.

“Like, if they’d rather network than dance with me that’s- it’s whatever,” says Mako, “Who cares? Parties like this are stupid anyway.”

Millie hums, taking a drag of her cigarette. “They are. Stupid I mean.”

Mako grins. “ _ Thank _ you! Man, I wish you could have been around like ten minutes ago when I was talking to Cass to back me up.” He takes a drag of his own cigarette, coughing a little as he exhales. “I mean, why come to this thing if they don’t even want to dance?”

“They probably just don’t want to dance in front of cameras,” says Millie, “I mean, royals usually don’t, they just normally sort of… sit there and do diplomacy stuff.”

“But that’s so  _ boring _ ,” says Mako, “Why even  _ bring _ me then?”

“Because I like your company,” says a quiet voice from behind them.

Millie’s stomach sinks as she turns around to face Prince Cassander Timaeus Berenice. Their regalia gleams in the light of the party for a moment before they close the door behind them. Millie presses herself back against the railing, but Cassander seems to barely register her presence, his eyes drawn to Mako.

“You disappeared,” says Cassander, “I thought something had happened to you.”

“This party is too boring for anything to happen to me,” says Mako. “Besides, I have this security person with me, I was totally fine.”

Cassander blinks at her, as if noticing for the first time that there’s someone on the balcony other than Mako. Their face shutters, making them look more like the austere portrait of them that hangs in the GLORY mess hall. 

“And you are?”

“Ver'million Blue, of GLORY,” Millie adds. Hopefully it’s enough to keep her out of trouble.

“Ah,” says Cassander, “Of course, yes, they said there were a few representatives of GLORY here. I apologise, I assumed I had met with them all.”

Being vague is one thing but impersonating a superior officer is entirely another. “Oh, no, I’m not-”

“Wait,” says Mako, “Where’s AuDy?”

“Bringing the ship around,” says Cassander. They turn back to Millie. “I apologise for not finding the time to speak with you, but we really must be going.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” says Millie.

“I-” Cassander glances over their shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll hear about my pitch from the other officials, but I- Look, all I really ask is that you actually  _ look _ over the proposal Sokrates put forward instead of just chucking it out.”

“Sokrates’ proposal?” says Millie, trying desperately to sound as though she knows what the fuck they’re talking about.

Cassander huffs. “Unbelievable! Well, at least you’re not pretending to have read it like the rest of them did, it’s- I’m sure you still have access to it, please, just read it and actually  _ think _ about what this stupid program is doing-”

“Uh, Cass?” says Mako. “Don’t we have to like, go?”

“Just a minute,” says Cassander, turning back to Millie. “Just because you’re making clones, doesn’t mean those clones don’t have  _ feelings _ , or deserve to have their own  _ lives _ -”

Millie feels a sudden lump in her throat, and she reaches behind her to put one hand on the balcony to keep herself steady. A report from the royal family, out there in the world, arguing against GLORY, arguing that she should be free. Her head spins.

“You-” continues Cassander, breaking off to look at Mako again. “Mako,  _ what _ ?”

“Is that what you were doing instead of dancing?” says Mako, his voice a little wondering.

Cassander runs their hand through their hair, making it fall out of it’s neat style. “I- it’s important.”

Mako puts his hand on Cassander’s arm, a gesture so shockingly intimate despite the layers of clothing they’re wearing that Millie thinks even the tabloids wouldn’t run it.

“You should have said something,” says Mako, “Then I wouldn’t have been so mad about the dancing.”

“You were mad about the dancing?” says Cassander, frowning.

“Yes!” says Mako, “But I guess this was kind of important.”

“It’s not just important,” says Cassander, “It’s right.” They clear their throat. “I, uh, I hope you take that into account when you read the report.”

Millie nods, not quite trusting herself to speak. Cassander nods back. As they turn to leave, Mako slips his arm through their’s. The last thing Millie sees of them before the doors closes is Cassander’s smile.

She lets out a long breath, leaning back heavily against the balcony railing. She takes a long, steadying drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke curl and disappear in the wind. She’ll give herself a minute, maybe two.

She has a report to find.


	4. aftermath (valence & samol)

After the explosion, there’s nothing.

Valence comes back to awareness in bits and pieces, their memories jumbling together out of order. Meeting Thisbe’s eyes for the first time, and the last. The stars above them changing as they got further and further from home. Broun’s first attempt at speaking to them with their mind, their thoughts fumbling and warm. The sound of mechs clashing overhead in battle. The quiet murmur of the mess hall of Fort Icebreaker. Broun running a campaign, ideas tumbling out of them. Star charts layered on top of one another. Gur Sevraq’s hand on their shoulder. Meeting Broun for the first time, the face they made at the formality of shaking hands.

The memories shift into their proper order, fading away and leaving them in a dark void. They can’t even see themselves - the impression they have of having a body here feels insubstantial, more like something they’re imaging into being than a physical shape.

“Well hello there,” says a voice, “Didn’t expect to be getting visitors now, nor ever.”

Valence focuses their attention, the voice in front of them coming into grainy focus. An older man takes shape, sitting at a rickety-looking wooden table. He tips his hat back, his birch tree-like hair seeming more solid as he gives Valence a lone considering look.

When they glance down at themselves they can only see the void. They wonder what their body looks like, whether they have a wolf mask here, too.

“Where are we?” says Valence.

“Why don’t you sit a minute?” says the man, "It's a little complicated, but we got time for it.”

“Do we?” says Valence.

The man laughs. “You might be right about that. Don’t rightly know how long the Nothing will keep us around, ‘specially since I wouldn’t have thought it’d keep me around at all. Guess it wanted me to see how it all turned out.”

“How what all turned out?”

The man sweeps at arm over the wooden table and it turns clear under his hands, the images flicking past underneath the glass so bright compared to their surroundings that Valence aches. Under the glass, a huge tree twists and forms, enormous bugs crawling past humans and other creatures Valence has never seen before, before the image settles on a small scruffy-looking man as he potters around a gem-lined cave, putting things into a small well-worn bag.

“He’s going on a trip,” says the old man softly, “Good to see him getting out. Far too easy for the likes of us to fall into patterns.” He chuckles. “But I guess you’re pretty tired of patterns, huh Fero?”

“What is- Sorry,” says Valence, “But what, exactly, is happening right now?”

The image on the glass flickers out, leaving the table to be plain wood again. The old man sighs.

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re dead,” says the old man, “Dead in a way that most people never get to be. You must be quite the unusual individual to end up here.”

“There was an explosion,” says Valence slowly. They let out a long breath, steadying themselves. “I- It had to be done.”

The man nods. “You might be right about that.”

Valence looks down.They can feel their hands tracing the wood grains of the old table but they can’t see them, so they stop looking at them.

“Are you… in charge of this place?”

The man laughs. “No, just a resident for once. Retirement of a kind.”

“Not a very nice spot for a retirement,” says Valence.

“Depends on how you look at it,” says the man, “After all, don’t think I’d have been able to do anything like retiring if I was alive.” He peers at Valence. “You’re much the same, I reckon.”

“I guess,” says Valence. “I always thought that maybe after it was all over, I could...” They sigh. “I don’t know. I guess it was probably too far away from being over.”

The man nods. “Don’t know your situation but that’s right more often than not. Most things don’t have a habit of finishing up clean.”

Valence nods, studying the table, their eyes following the twisting pattern of the wood grain. It twists in front of their eyes, flicking and sharpening until it becomes glass again. This time, instead of the huge tree and the gem cave it’s a more familiar setting - the darkened walkway of the Blue Channel. Heavy workboots come into view, stomping along the repaired walkway towards one of the rooms.

It’s Broun.

Valence goes still, not daring to breathe or move, in case it pulls the image away.

Broun opens one of the rooms, instantly recognisable as their bedroom by the half-repaired weaponry and mech parts scattered on the table, the pile of schematics by the bed. There’s something that seems out of place on the bed, the blanket not really the colour they would have expected Broun to choose but also so familiar - their robe. Valence’s throat aches sharply as Broun sits on the bed with a sigh, flopping backwards and pulling the robe to cover their face for a moment, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly. They pull the fabric away from their face, holding it close to their chest as they blink up at the ceiling.

“Friend of your’s?” says the man.

Valence jumps. The image flickers and disappears. They let out a breath, trying to give themselves space enough to be able to speak. 

“Yes,” says Valence finally, “We… we were friends.”

The man nods. “Left a few friends behind myself. The watching makes it easier, and it doesn’t, if you know what I mean.”

Valence nods. “Can I… was that like a one time thing, or…?”

“Do it as often as you like,” says the man, “I haven’t found a limit yet outside of what my own heart can take. Why don’t you give it a minute though, have a bite.”

A small table besides them flickers into existence, a tray of small cakes on it.

“How did you do that?” says Valence. “Wait, do we even  _ need _ to eat here? I… didn’t really need to eat before.”

The corners of the man’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Neither did I, but I find I like to, on occasion. We can tell each other a little bit about ourselves, since you’re likely to stay awhile.”

“Okay,” says Valence.

“Well now,” says the man, leaning back a little in his chair, “My story’s kind of a long one.”

“I don't mind if you go first. Like you said,” says Valence, “We’ve probably got time.”

The man chuckles. “Alright then. My story started a long time ago. You see, one day, nothing flinched and there I was, and instantly it regretted me...”


	5. letters (rosana/hadrian & millie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a continuation of 'sanctuary'

Rosana settled back on the couch, listening to Hadrian potter around in the kitchen as he made them both a cup of tea, their nightly ritual. She smiled to herself. What a miracle it felt, even now after so many years, for them to be able to have such things, no impending disasters, no rushing off to save the world. Just the two of them, sharing something warm.

Normally, when they were without letters, they read from one of the books Fero would drop off from Devar’s library, learning about the world as it had been. Tonight however, they had a letter from Hella, the promise of news hidden inside. 

Hadrian had left it unopened, although whether it was because he wanted to save it until the evening or his eyes were giving him trouble again she couldn’t tell. Rosana ran her finger along the edge of the worn envelope. Even that wasn’t so bad. There was something miraculous in being able to grow old together too.

Hadrian emerged from the kitchen, a steaming mug in each hand. Rosana took them from him, setting them on the low table beside them as Hadrian sat next to her. They settled against one another, Rosana tucking herself against Hadrian’s side and Hadrian curling an arm around her shoulder.

She tilted her head to look up at him. “Ready?”

Hadrian hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.”Yeah, thank you.”

Rosana smiled again, carefully cracking the wax seal of the letter, unfolding it so that she could read it properly in the lamplight.

“ _ Hello Uncle Hadrian and Aunt Rosana _ \- oh, it’s from Roe,” said Rosana. She scanned through the letter. “There’s a postscript from Hella though. Did you want me to read that first?”

“Go in whatever order you like,” said Hadrian, “I don’t mind.”

“I’ll start from the beginning,” said Rosana. “ _ Hello Uncle Hadrian and Aunt Rosana. Thank you for the nice ribbons you sent, we put some of them on our new scarecrow and now the scarecrow is scary AND pretty! We put the leftover ones on Barbelo but then he turned invisible and ran into the garden and so we lost them. Rix says the ribbons are maybe invisible forever but Hella says they’ll probably turn up when we dig up the garden next. I hope they’re still invisible when we find them, because I think having invisible ribbons would be really cool and useful. _ ”

Hadrian huffed a laugh. “Invisible ribbons. Have to ask Ben about that one.”

Rosana hummed, continuing. “ _ We’ll probably dig up part of the garden soon, since your friend Millie said she’d stay to help do it. Rix and I have been teaching her all about how to do stuff in the garden, and yesterday she helped us get out the big root stump that Hella wrote you about in her last letter. She is almost as strong as Hella!- _ oh, and then he’s done a little drawing of…” Rosana frowned at the letter. “Oh, it’s… it’s Millie holding up some big- oh it’s a bug, I see, because Hella’s holding up two bugs.”

“I hope she’s not doing that in real life,” said Hadrian.

“I’m sure it’s just artistic licence,” said Rosana, patting Hadrian’s arm. “Besides, you’ve both done more dangerous things in your time.”

Hadrian huffed a laugh. “I suppose. Our backs aren’t what they used to be though, even if she does have a new body.” His voice took on a wistful tone. “I hope she’s taking care of herself.”

Rosana leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sure she is. After all, she has two wives to make sure of it.”

Hadrian smiled. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am, as always,” said Rosana.

Hadrian laughed, the warmth of it caught in his eyes as she settled back down She turned her attention back on the letter.

“ _ Hella said next she’s going to teach Millie how to maintain the well, and Adaire said that after that they’d get her to repatch the roof but I think maybe she was saying that to get Millie to stay longer. I hope she does, Rix and I agree that she’s very cool. Okay now Hella is saying I have to stop writing because it’s time for bed (boo!) so I’m going to give her this letter to send tomorrow. Bye!!!! _ ”

Rosana took a breath, her eyes scanning over Hella’s postscript just in case the words were only meant for Hadrian. She could always feign tiredness and leave it for him to read in the daylight, when the strain on his eyes was less.

“And Hella?” prompted Hadrian.

Rosana cleared her throat. “ _ PS: Hadrian, I hope this letter finds you as well as it leaves me. Rix and Roe have been having a great time with our new visitor, and I admit having the extra pair of hands around is good to have, especially around this time of year. Millie seems a natural at the garden. A little like me, I guess, in that she didn’t realise she was until she got started. There are more similarities, ones that I guess you’ve already seen since you sent her our way (with Rosana’s wonderful cooking - please give her my thanks and love)-” _

“I do,” said Hadrian.

Rosana smiled. “So you do.  _ I’m sure before long we’ll be helping her find a place of her own, as we both know how much good that can do someone like us. Maybe somewhere in between us, to give us a place to stay when we visit each other so we don’t have to travel so far in one go. _ ”

Behind her, Rosana heard Hadrian swallow hard, his chest rising and falling as he took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.

“ _ Neither of us are built to go far from home nowadays, but I hope we make it a few more times at least. I’d love to show you all the small fixes around the place that I’ve written to you about, and get your (wrong, but still appreciated) opinion on them-” _

Hadrian gave a watery laugh. Rosana paused, swallowing around the lump in her throat.

“ _ But that’s a few years off yet. For now our house has one extra,and I thank you for it. From, your Hella _ .”

Rosana let out a breath, letting the letter fall to her lap. She looked up at Hadrian, and he looked back down at her, giving her a lopsided smile.

“It would be nice to have somewhere to stop along the way.”

“It would,” said Rosana, “And it will.”

“You think it’ll really happen?”

Rosana tilted her head, thinking for a moment. ”Perhaps. You old warriors do seem to be of a kind.”

Hadrian looked down at the letter in Rosana’s hand, smiling. “We do, don’t we?” He paused. “Now we just need to find her a very smart and beautiful wife.”

  
Rosana laughed. “I am sure that such a wife will find  _ her _ . Given who she’s staying with, I’d say she has quite the head start on it.”


	6. just a little guy (thisbe & fero)

“HEY!”

Thisbe looked down. The man below her looked smaller than people normally did. She ran a quick diagnostic - she was not any taller than she had been previously.

The man put his hands on his hips, frowning up at her.

“Hello,” said Thisbe.

“Hi, hello,” said the man, “You’re like, on top of my farm right now.”

Thisbe looked down. There were a few thin lines through the earth, not really anything she would have called a farm. The berry bushes that were growing along the edges of the clearing seemed to be doing so entirely of their own accord.

“Am I?” said Thisbe.

“Yeah,” said the man, waving his arms and stomping over to the corner of the area where the earth had been freshly turned. “See?”

“No,” said Thisbe.

“Well that’s because you’re all the way up there,” said the man, “come down here and then you’ll be able to see stuff properly.”

“I can see perfectly well from here. Thank you.”

The man huffed a breath. “Whatever, just- could you step to the side? I’m trying to plant stuff.”

Thisbe stepped to the side, watching the man for a moment. Although his farm was abysmal, he did seem to know how to plant seeds correctly, carefully scattering them through the small area of earth.

“What are you planting?” said Thisbe.

“Potatoes, carrots,” said the man, “some sweet peas over there, but I’m going to put up a trellis for them later.”

Thisbe paused. “Do you require assistance?”

The man frowned, squinting up at her. Thisbe looked back down at him, as unblinking as ever.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” said the man. He tilted his head. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Thisbe.”

“Well, nice to meet you Thisbe, I’m Fero. The plants don’t have names yet, but when they do I’ll introduce you.”

“They do have names,” said Thisbe.

Fero tilted his body back to look up at her. “They do?”

“Yes,” said Thisbe, “Carrot, potato, sweet pea.”

Fero waved a hand. “Yeah, but I meant like… other names.”

“Why would you give them other names?”

“Helps them grow better,” said Fero.

Tisbe watched him for another moment. This farm was much smaller than the one she had emerged from, but there was something in the tangle of Fero’s hair that felt familiar to the farmers there, the way their hands, too, had been stained by the damp earth as they tended to it.

“How do you know what to name them?” asked Thisbe.

“Well I just listen and see what they call each other,” said Fero, “But I guess if you couldn’t hear them, you would just pick names that felt right and then see how the plant liked it.”

“You hear them?”

“Oh yeah,” said Fero, “They don’t talk much, you sort of have to just be very quiet and wait, especially with herbs, they’re pretty shy.”

“I see,” said Thisbe, “I will be silent now, to hear them.”

“Well they’re not talking  _ yet _ ,” said Fero, “They’re still seeds right now. They’re like babies, or they’re not born yet, or whatever. You have to wait until they start coming out of the ground.”

Thisbe nodded. “I understand.”

Taking great care not to sit on any area that might be part of Fero’s tiny farm, she lowered herself to the ground.

Fero shot her a look. “What are you doing?”

“I am waiting for them to come out of the ground so that I can hear what they should be named,” said Thisbe.

“That’s going to be kind of a long time.”

“I am aware,” said Thisbe, “But I would like to hear what they have to say.”

Something flickered over Fero’s face. “Right.” He paused. “Hey, uh, you probably don’t eat, right?”

“I do not,” said Thisbe.

“Me either,” said Fero, “Do you, like, sleep?”

“Sometimes I lower my functions to their base level to conserve power,” said Thisbe.

“Close enough,” said Fero, “You can come do that at my place if you want. Y’know, so you don’t have to wait out here the whole time.”

“I am able to wait here,” said Thisbe.

Fero huffed. “Yeah, I know but like… won’t you rust?”

“No,” said Thisbe.

“Oh.” Fero thought for a moment. “Won’t you get bored just sitting here for like three months or whatever?”

“No,” said Thisbe, “I am not capable of being bored.”

“I guess that’s fair,” said Fero. He paused. “If you want a change of scenery while you wait though, you can come stay at my place. There are plants there too.”

Thisbe tilted her head, thinking. “Plants with names?”

Fero grinned up at her. “Yeah! You can talk to them if you want and I can translate back, you can hear all about their name stuff.”

“I would like that,” said Thisbe.

“Kind of hard to give you directions when you’re all the way up there,” said Fero.

“I am unable to make myself smaller,” said Thisbe. “If you would like, I can put you on my shoulders.”

“Sure I guess- whoa!”

Thisbe picked Fero up, careful of his tiny body in her hands, and put him on her shoulder. She felt him wrap an arm around the back of her neck to steady himself, pointing outward with the other arm.

“That way!” said Fero.

Thisbe set off, mindful of the forest before her. Despite her slow pace, Fero let out a whoop.

“This is almost as good as being a bird!”

“I cannot become a bird,” said Thisbe.

“That’s okay,” said Fero, “I can.”

Thisbe paused. “You are a strange creature.”

“Thanks!” said Fero with a laugh, “So are you!”

“Thank you,” said Thisbe, and took another stepped towards Fero’s home, where plants named themselves.


	7. reflection (clem & acre seven)

Clem wanders the streets and alleys of Past, moonlight gleaming off the cracked pavestones. It’s true that she has less free time now as the Witch in Glass than she had before, but there are still times when the streets of Past are quiet, when the others aboard are asleep or too consumed by their own projects to seek her out.

She’s taken to exploring the city during those quiet hours, after all, she was always told that a good leader should know the layout of the places under their control. She intends to memorise Past’s layout as well as she had memorised Crutiat’s. It’s easier, since she can walk Past’s streets instead of just looking at it on a map, trying to piece together thin childhood memories with dry schematics.

It keeps her more than occupied, on the nights when she finds sleep hard to come by, her steps keeping time with the lingering ache in her arm. There’s always new parts of the city she has yet to explore, the sage guiding her through tiny cottages and between tall spires and brick buildings.

She avoids the places that she knows are occupied. It would defeat the purpose of exploration to talk to the others of the city. Besides, her day is full of talking to the others. She would prefer to spend the nights speaking only to Perennial.

Perennial rarely speaks back, but it feels like she’s listening, sometimes, calling Clem forward, down a specific street or towards a particular building.

She’s doing just that tonight, the tendrils of purple fog pulling back as Clem steps forward, marking a path through the city. All of Past is old but some sections are older than others, and that is where Clem finds herself tonight, picking her way through crumbling streets towards the shining house she can just make out through the fog, the moonlight reflecting off the strange, domed roof.

The fog clears as she reaches the door, made of the same shining metal as the curved roof, and Clem takes in the hollow windows where tendrils of sage peek out from inside. When she tries the door, the handle opens easily and the hinges of the door do not creak.

She has been expected.

Inside, the scent of sage thickly overlays the smell of dust. The room itself is simple, plain metal furniture made of the same substance of the building stands as still as if they had been carefully placed there only moments ago. Clem steps forward, past the curved desk with it’s dust-covered screens, past the empty bookcase, to the mirror at the back of the room. Sage blooms around it, it’s scent drawing Clem closer.

The mirror is, like everything else, coated with a layer of dust, with fine cracks marking the surface underneath. Clem lifts a hand to wipe the dust away and then freezes, drawing back. Her reflection stutters before doing the same- or, it’s not fully her reflection. It’s hard to make out through the dust, but the figure in the mirror is wearing a long colourful dress that seems to shift colours in between blinks. It’s moving almost in time with her, but the figure is so different from how Clem knows herself to look.

She takes a hurried step backwards, watching as her reflection does the same. The fabric swirling at her reflection’s feet glitches, as though the mirror was getting network interference.

“Hello?” says Clem.

Her reflection mouths it back at her, only a little out of sync with her this time. Clem swallows hard, her hand flexing at her sides. Her reflection’s hands flex too, and when Clem looks back up at the face of her reflection she gasps. With a trembling hand she reaches forward, her hand meeting her reflections on the glass as she wipes away the dust.

Now, the woman in the mirror  _ does _ look like her, although still a little out of sync, still wearing that strange dress. Clem holds her breath, watching as her reflection does the same.

The sage brushes her hand, it’s flowers catching her attention. Perennial wants her to see this. Perennial wants her to have the knowledge of this strange room.

Clem closes her eyes. “Are you there?”

She lets out a slow breath, and when she opens them again she finds that she is looking right into her reflection’s eyes. Clem gasps. Her reflection stutters, then copies. Behind her, the screen on the desk flickers to life, purple static fading until Clem can read the words that fill the screen.

_ The Wheel Turns _ .

“Yes,” says Clem, “Yes, I- it does. It must.”

The screen flickers and shuts off before Clem can turn to look at it. She turns back to the mirror, reaching out again to touch her reflection. Her reflection’s movements run backwards, making Clem’s stomach twist, and then forward again to meet her.

Her own face looks back at her, blue eyes meeting her’s through the sage mask. Something jolts in her chest, the feeling of sudden weightlessness before gravity returns and then vanishes, leaving her feeling worn out.

The bed in the corner catches her eye - dusty, of course, but much closer than her own bed is in this moment. She staggers towards it, making a half-hearted effort to shake out the blankets before she flops down.

The last thing she sees as her eyes droop closed is her reflection, it’s movements rewinding and fast-forwarding onto the bed to match her's. The sage tangled around the edge of the mirror waves in the breeze.

“Goodnight,” murmurs Clem, “Goodnight.”

She falls asleep before she can listen for a reply.


	8. sick as shit (gig & leap)

“Mr Kephart,” whispers Kent, “Perhaps you’d better stay behind me during the negotiations.”

“I don’t think pirates do much negotiating,” says Gig, “I think they just sort of tell you how much stuff they want.”

Kent straightens. “Not when they go up against me, I-”

He stutters to a stop, the colour draining from his face as one of the pirates swings down onto their ship. He’s got a very cool-looking robot head and clothing that wouldn’t look out of place in Gig’s wardrobe. Still he’s probably here to be mean to Kent to some degree, so Gig tries not to think he’s  _ too _ cool.

“Which one of you dummies is the captain?” says the pirate.

Kent’s crew glance at each other, shuffling their feet. Gig's spent enough time with them now to know that they like Kent alright, but probably not enough to die for him. Gig can feel Kent go tense, either in an attempt to hide the fact that he’s the captain or to throw himself into whatever negotiations he thinks are about to happen. It’s very brave of him and would absolutely play great on camera, but Gig has no desire to capture the undoubtedly grizzly footage of Kent’s death that would result.

The pirate looks right at Gig. That sort of settles it, in Gig's mind. He's been in dangerous places before, he was even shot once! And that worked out okay. Armstrong still sent him a message now and again, when he was about to pass through.

Gig steps forward. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Kent’s hand flex forward for a moment, as though Kent was going to pull him back. He takes another half step forward for good measure, putting his hands on his hips and looking the pirate up and down.

“And who are you?” says Gig, trying to think of how the pirates talked in the old movie Even had brought to the last group movie night, “Storming onto my ship like you own the place?”

“The name’s Leap, and I basically do own this place now.”

“That remains to be seen,” says Gig.

Leap lets out a laugh, reminding Gig a little of a seagull, his beak-like mouth snapping shut in something close to a grin.

“I guess so,” says Leap, “But I can give you a preview: I take everything that I want, including the ship, and if you guys don’t give me too hard of a time maybe I leave you the life boats.”

“Well that doesn’t seem very fair,” says Gig, “I helped build this boat.”

That seems to make Leap pause. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!” says Gig.

This, at least, he doesn’t have to lie about - he did help Kent build the boat, figuring out the design of it and joining the crews working on it. It had been fun and a great series of videos, which hopefully Leap has been too busy pirate-ing to see.

“Captains don’t normally build the boats,” says Leap.

“Well, it was kind of a- a gift for someone,” says Gig, “Which is like, another good reason not to take the boat.”

Leap makes a face. “Is it?”

“Sure,” says Gig, “I mean, you wouldn’t steal someone’s birthday cake, would you?”

“I might,” says Leap.

“Yeah, okay, but not like, the  _ whole _ cake,” says Gig.

Leap tilts his head. "I think if I just took part of the boat you’d be in a worse spot than if you just had lifeboats."

“No, like… like… okay, so you take the  _ stuff _ but you  _ leave _ the boat,” says Gig. He pauses. “And like, some food and water.”

“Hmm,” says Leap.

“Just some!” says Gig, “Otherwise, like, how would we get back?”

“You’d hope the wind was good and fast enough to distract you from how hungry you were,” says Leap.

“Yeah but why do that when you could just give us some of the food,” says Gig, “I mean, your crew looks pretty small, you might not be able to eat all of it before it went bad, that’d be pretty wasteful.”

“Could use it for fishing,” says Leap.

“Do you want to go fishing?” says Gig.

“Not really,” says Leap. He tilts his head. “You know, you’re pretty convincing for a captain.”

Gig grins. “Oh? What do the captains normally say?”

“Get off my ship, stop shooting at me, argh, that kind of thing,” says Leap, waving a hand. “Pretty all or nothing.”

“That’s no way to be,” says Gig, “You don’t get anything done that way, not building a ship or finishing a house or- uh, captaining.”

Leap laughs.

“So,” says Gig, “Does that mean I convinced you?”

Leap laughs again. “Ah, what the hell. Keep the ship. I'd have to get it back to- it's too much effort for such a little boat.”

“And some food?”

“And  _ some _ food,” agrees Leap, “But I want to see the food you have first.”

“Right this way!” says Gig, leading Leap down into the kitchen.

Kent gives him a wide-eyed look as he and Leap go below, catching Gig by the wrist. Gig tries to convey with his eyebrows that everything’s fine and he has this all super under control.

“Just- do be careful Gig,” whispers Kent.

“Of course,” says Gig, “You know me, safety first.”

He puts his hand on top of Kent’s. Kent’s cheeks flush and his hand flutters up and away from Gig’s. It reminds him of something out of Even’s pirate movie, like something a dancer would do.

“Hurry up captain,” says Leap, “Before I change my mind.”

Gig hurries to follow Leap down the stairs.

“So,” says Leap, “The ship was a gift huh?”

“Sort of, yeah,” says Gig.

“I know they say the sea is like, romantic,” says Leap, “but I think that might be  _ too _ romantic.”

“What?”

Leap waves a hand. “You and that guy. He’s who the ship is a gift  _ too _ , right?”

“Yeah, but- We’re just friends,” says Gig.

“Sure,” says Leap, “Just two friends who make each other boats.”

“Kent’s never made me a boat,” says Gig.

Leap gives his seagull laugh again. “Maybe he should.”

“Maybe I’ll show him how,” says Gig, “After we get back to land.”

Leap waggles the visor over his eye-lamp at Gig. 

Gig frowns. “What?”

“You’d  _ show _ him-” Leap huffs a laugh. “Never mind. Anyway- where’s this food?”

Gig, relieved at the top change, directs Leap towards the pantry. Luckily he’s made enough meals for the crew to know where everything is.

“You the ship’s cook too?” says Leap.

“Nah,” says Gig, “Just picked up a couple things. You know how it is, uh, when you’re on the sea.”

Leap nods. Maybe he learnt more about pirates from Even’s movie than he’d thought. It’s enough to let him scrape by until he’s back up on deck, watching Leap’s small pirate crew haul everything up from below decks.

Leap claps him on the shoulder. “Well captain. It was nice meeting you, or whatever.”

Gig tilts his head. “Yeah, I guess it was kind of nice.”

Leap laughs his seagull laugh again. He’s the last of the pirates to swing off the ship, waving to them as his ship speeds away. Kent steps beside Gig at the railing. He still looks very pale, his hand trembling as he pushes his hand away from his face.

Gig puts an arm around Kent’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s all over, we’re fine.”

“Yes, I… I suppose it is. Mr Kephart, I…” Kent swallows, looking up at Gig. “I don’t know how to thank you, you saved my life- all our lives.”

“We would have been fine,” says Gig, “even in the lifeboats I bet we could have gotten back to shore in like, a couple days.”

Kent shudders, and Gig squeezes his shoulder. In response Kent turns towards him, tucking himself against Gig’s chest. Gig shifts his arms around him, resting his cheek on the top of Kent’s head.

“Hey,” says Gig softly, because Kent seems to need to hear it. “You’re okay.”

“I am,” says Kent, looking up at Gig, “Thanks to you.”

“Hey,” says Gig, “What are friends for?”

Kent flushes. “Yes, I- you are a very good friend to me.”

“Thanks,” says Gig, “You’re a pretty good friend to me too.”

Kent’s face tips forward, pressed for a moment against Gig’s chest, so Gig keeps his arms around Kent until one of Kent’s stewards comes up to report their remaining travel time and the status of the remaining food. Kent hurries away to speak with the steward, leaving Gig to lean on the railing, watching the water speed by.


	9. momentum (crysanth & rigor)

There is something under the ice. That’s what they tell her, at any rate. Some of the reports that have filtered in have seemed a touch more paranoid than usual. Perhaps it’s time to refresh her operatives in that particular area.

Crysanth hums, scrolling through the reports. There’s another undercurrent through the reports other than paranoia: annoyance. Every Curtain member, no matter how loyal to her, resents being sent into the cold. Perhaps they see it as being metaphorical rather than merely literal. For some, it is. She’s often found than assignments such as this focus some of the more restless Curtain agents. This assignment in particular seems to send them back with better work ethic and less inclination to press back on the ethics behind their orders.

She taps a nail against the side of the datapad. Perhaps she should try it on Sovereign Immunity. He’s been highly critical of late, from Curtain missions to her choice of tutors for Clementine, and far too interested in the plight of those on the rough, outer planets. As though it should be any of his concern what certain companies were using as motivation for those on the produce line.

Crysanth hums to herself. Yes. A few months surveying the excavation site should help refocus him. It would be harder for him to pick up so many news broadcasts out there too, less to tug at his heartstrings.

Just a short trip, to help him focus on the work he  _ should  _ be doing, to make him a little more useful.

There is something under the ice. That’s what Sovereign tells her in his reports, as annoyingly delayed as ever. He’s gone over everything apart from the excavation site itself, a job for tomorrow he says. The crater they’ve dug is pretty extensive, people working on it around the clock, but one of the higher-ups is going to take him around to see it at a more reasonable hour. There is something about it that makes him want to take a closer look.

“Well get on with it,” says Crysanth, “I didn’t send you down there for a holiday, Immunity.”

“Right,” says Sovereign, “I guess I… I’ll give you the full report when I get back.”

Sovereign Immunity does, indeed, return more focused and with an extensive report. He also looks dreadfully tired, although he brushes such comments aside without even the light dusting of charm that he’d previously had.

“I’ve just got a lot to do,” snaps Sovereign during a meeting, “Don’t you?”

The general sinks back into his seat, murmuring an apology, and Crysanth hides a smile. Much better. They were entirely too friendly before. Too sympathetic to each other’s points during meetings.

Despite his fatigue, the quality of his work does not waver. Meticulous battle plans that would have once taken him days are produced overnight. Reports are summarised within hours. She even comes across him updating his mech, reworking the internal wiring for efficiency.

“It’s good to see Immunity,” says Crysanth, “I knew the trip would do you good.”

Something flickers across his face, too fast for even Crysanth to catch.

“Yeah,” says Sovereign, “I guess it was… it helped me prioritise. There’s a lot to do.”

“Yes,” says Crysanth, “There always is.”

There is something under the ice. That’s what Sovereign’s report had said. Something that had called him down, that made him as focussed as she’d ever desired him to be, no more flittering around trying to pull her attention to Clementine’s studies or the plight of farmers who are planets away.

She feels quite energised by it. Perhaps she’ll take a trip out there herself to survey the site, once she has a moment, to go down into the crater and see the power under there for herself.

After all, there is so much to do.


	10. complications (sige & fourteen fifteen)

Sige had already been locked up for the better part of an hour when someone else got put in his cell. The guards were probably trying to intimidate a newbie, since they certainly look out of place, their loose-knit jumper making them look even smaller as they clutched a stack of paperwork close to their chest.

They gave Sige a considering look before they sat neatly on the other end of the bench, letting out a long breath as they began to leaf through their stack of paperwork.

Sige extended a hand their way. “Sige Coleburn.”

They pressed their lips together, taking a moment before they shook his hand. “Fourteen Fifteen.”

“So,” said Sige, because he may as well make conversation, “What are you in for?”

“I’m not  _ in _ for anything,” said Fourteen, “I’m your lawyer.”

Sige frowned. “I didn’t ask for a lawyer.”

“Yes, and I think that fact made the Golden Lance out there feel rather nervous. They seem rather keen to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Uh…”

Sige tried to calculate where the others might be in the heist. Probably not close enough to the end of it for him to cause a distraction just yet.

“I’m not in a rush,” said Sige, “take your time.”

“I will take as much time as I require and not a minute further,” said Fourteen.

Sige shifted on the bench. “Right.”

Fourteen shot him a look. “You know, most people would be excited about the prospect of getting out of here quickly.”

Sige shrugged in what he hoped was a convincingly casual manner. “Not my first time being in here, that’s all.”

“You’d think that would make you even more keen to get out,” said Fourteen. They leafed through a few pages from their stack, pulling several to the front, “Almost as though you  _ want _ to be in here for some reason.”

“Now why would I want something like that?” said Sige.

“I don’t know,” said Fourteen, not looking up as they scribbled something across one of the pages, “And as your lawyer I would advise you not to tell me.”

Sige huffed a laugh. “Right, can do.”

Fourteen looked at him over the top of their half-moon glasses. “As someone who has, by your own admission, been in here quite a few times… exactly how long do  _ you _ think it will take me to get you out?”

“Uh…”

“I’m... open to suggestions,” said Fourteen, “The Golden Lance might have called me in here, but you’re my client and I take that  _ extremely  _ seriously.”

“Probably…” Sige hesitated, thinking for a moment. If everything was going to plan, probably the others would be ready for a diversion in an hour, but probably everything was  _ not _ going to plan, so… “like an hour and a half?”

Fourteen nodded, pulling another few pages from their pile to the top of the stack. “That sounds entirely appropriate. There is quite a bit of paperwork here and I like to be thorough.”

“I thought you said they wanted me out of here quick?” said Sige.

“Oh I’m sure they’d let me skip a few steps if I asked,” said Fourteen, “it’s just, in this instance, I have neglected to ask.”

Sige grinned, leaning back against the wall, his hands behind his head. “I had no idea lawyers were so amenable.”

Fourteen’s eyes flicked up at him before they refocussed on the page in front of them. “I have been on both sides of things, I know a little of how it is.”

“You seem pretty young to have had that big of a career change,” said Sige.

“I’m not quite as young as I appear,” said Fourteen, “I was simply reborn into this career.”

“Reborn?”

“Reconfiguration, of a kind I suppose,” said Fourteen, waving a hand. “A long story, too long, I think, for our purposes here today.”

“Maybe we could make time for it later,” said Sige.

Fourteen paused, raising their eyebrows at him. “I don’t date clients.”

Sige held up his hands. “It wouldn’t be a date. Just a sharing of knowledge.”

“I don’t do that either,” said Fourteen, returning to their paperwork.

Sige watched them for a long while out of the corner of his eye as they slowly made their way through the stack of paperwork, pulling pages out seemingly at random to work on.

“There any kind of order to that?” said Sige.

“There’s  _ supposed  _ to be,” said Fourteen. “Honestly, I think they… is that a friend of yours?”

Sige followed Fourteen’s pointed finger to the small window at the roof of the cell. Castille’s cat form stretched through the bars of the window, it’s limbs dangling for a moment as it made eye contact with Sige and looked curiously at Fourteen.

“They’re okay,” said Sige, “They’re going to help with the next part of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Fourteen, “I am very clearly a lawyer and, now that I’ve finished all this, it’s time for you to get out of here.”

Sige wasn’t sure what, exactly, Fourteen expected but it was almost certainly not him smashing the guards face with the door to their cell as they unlocked it. He pulled the door off its hinges and braced it against his shoulder, running at full speed through the guard post. There was a clear path to the exit, but there wasn’t much point to a diversion if it was immediately over (and besides, there was something extremely satisfying about taking out quite a bit of Golden Lance property).

They could hear Fourteen scrambling behind him, keeping up admirably despite the chaos.

“What did you say you did in a past life again?” said Sige, aiming himself for the exit.

“I didn’t,” said Fourteen. They raised their eyebrows at something behind him. “Time to leave Mr Coleburn.”

A few of the Golden Lance members still on their feet were attempting to form a human barricade at the exit. Sige almost felt sorry for them.

Not sorry enough  _ not _ to put his full weight into knocking through them, but still.

Once they were both outside they took off in a run, through the twisting alleyways of Marielda. 

“You seem pretty fast on your feet for a lawyer,” said Sige, “That from another one of your past lives?”

“It’s from all of them, unfortunately,” said Fourteen, which didn’t actually make them any less mysterious. “Oh, this is my stop.”

They skidded to a halt in front of a purple door. The thin building it led into only had one thin window, the purple glass too smokey for Sige to make out what was inside.

“Your law offices?” said Sige.

“My girlfriend’s bar,” said Fourteen, “You should stop by sometime, if you can find it after this afternoon. Good luck with the rest of your run.”

They ducked through the door, leaving Sige alone on the street with the sound of the Golden Lance echoing behind him.

  
“ _ Lawyers _ ,” huffed Sige, and ran on.


	11. orbit (clem & demani/gray)

Clem huffed a breath, stomping down the halls of the station. What a  _ ridiculous _ assignment to be given to someone of her station. An  _ observation post _ . It was though her mother didn’t trust her enough to do any of the  _ real _ work-

She cut herself off from that line of thought quickly., bringing her boots down heavier on the metal walkway to drown out her thoughts until she’d made it back to the place she’d started from.

“Stupid circular observation post,” muttered Clem, setting off again with a huff.

There was her bedroom, crowded with trunks of clothes that it was pointless to wear. There was the kitchen where she was expected to make her  _ own _ meals. There was the hatch for the escape shuttle, which she had been expressly told not to use. There was the sorry excuse for a rec room, a few scattered weights and a treadmill. There was the observation point where she would be expected to make detailed logs twice a day about the Divine Fleet until whatever time her mother deemed it suitable to replace her, which would probably be as soon as it got interesting.

She flopped down into the chair of the observation room with a huff, glaring at each item in the room - the bank of flickering lights and switches, the tall cupboard that held the emergency spacesuits, the wide holoscreen, the tiny potted plant of sage in a purple clay pot-

Clem frowned. That hadn’t been in the equipment log. Perhaps plants, being ornamental, didn’t count as equipment. She reached out, touching the small leaves. It was certainly a real plant, surviving somehow in this awful place.

“Well,” said Clem, “I suppose if  _ you _ can manage it.”

The job of observer was just as monotonous as she’d expected. She woke up, she checked the logs, she did a summarised report. She ate, she worked out in the rec room. She wrote the day’s second report. She checked on the sage plant, which rarely needed water and seemed to grow just fine under the harsh fluorescent light. She looked out, past Quire, into the vastness of space, until her eyes grew heavy enough for her tiny bunk to seem appealing.

A few times she fell asleep at the observation desk instead, waking up with a sore neck and surrounded by the heavy scent of sage. It was odd - despite the awkward position, she always felt as though she slept deeper with the sage nearby.

It was nice to have the company of it, as it grew, the stems long enough to gently brush her arms as she carried it to the sink, or to her room. The scent helped her sleep far better than the pills her mother sent, the only missive Clem had received from Crysanth since being sent away.

“I didn’t even  _ do _ anything,” said Clem, partly to herself and partly to the sage plant. “It wasn’t  _ my _ fault they got away. Part of the reason we even had them in the first place was because they were  _ escapees _ and  _ pirates _ , one would think that sort of behaviour would be expected.”

The sage plant said nothing, obviously. Clem frowned, looking at it a little closer. There were small purple flowers growing along the stems, not yet blooming.

“Did you have those before?” Clem shook herself. “I suppose you must have.”

The cycle of days continued. The Divine Fleet moved this way and that. People left and people arrived. Her equipment was just good enough to make out flashes of life and colour within the mirage, so far away it might as well have been a dream. The only real colour on the station came from the tiny purple flowers of the sage plant, though it was yet to truly bloom, the buds closed tight.

“What are you waiting for?” murmured Clem, resting her head on her arms. “It’s not as though there will be a change in the weather.”

Something buzzed, and it took Clem a moment to realise it was an incoming transmission. She hadn’t had one of those before. She fumbled to answer it, trying to smooth down her hair and tidy the discs in front of her at the same time as the holoscreen flickered on.

Her stomach sank. It as Crysanth.

“Hello Observer.”

“Hello moth- Chief Intercessor Kesh,” said Clem, correcting herself. All transmissions were recorded, and all things recorded went on the record. It was important to be  _ correct _ .

“This will be a brief call,” said Crysanth, focussed more on the datapad in front of her. “It is regarding your length of mission.”

Out of sight of the camera, Clem’s hands twisted in her lap. Freedom was near, she just knew it. She’d absolved herself and now she’d be allowed to actually  _ do _ things again, breathe fresh air, pilot a mech, go to  _ parties _ …

“I can be ready to leave immediately,” said Clem.

“You will be required for an additional cycle set,” said Crysanth at the same time. She frowned, turning more of her attention to Clem. “You will  _ not _ be leaving.”

“But surely I-” Clem wet her lips. “I could be of more use elsewhere.”

“No,” said Crysanth, “You couldn’t.” She sighed, her attention leaving Clem again. “You will remain there until such time as you are no longer required.”

“And when, exactly, will that be?” said Clem.

Crysanth raised an eyebrow, a smile hovering at the edges of her lips, as though she were telling a joke that Clem couldn’t understand. “Now Clementine, I can’t know the future. Not yet, at least. Continue to submit your reports as you have been, although you could be better at completing them with promptness. We’ll review things next cycle.”

“Next cycle! But-”

It was no use, of course. Crysanth had already disconnected the call.

Clem let out a scream. She turned her fury on the observation desk, sending her datapad and the various discs scattering to the ground. There was a loud smash as the sage plant went with them, scattering dirt across the metal floor.

Clem froze, the anger leaving her in a rush. She fell to her knees beside the pot, her vision blurring as she tried to gather as much of the dirt closer to the roots.

“I didn’t- you can survive this, can’t you?” said Clem, “You can- oh?”

There was a piece of paper caught in the roots of the sage plant. It felt waxy to the touch, undamaged by the soil. She unfolded it carefully, her hands trembling.

_ If you’re looking for a sign _ , read the note _ , this is it. _

It was signed ‘GG & DD’, which was as mysterious to Clem as finding the note was. She swallowed, clutching the note in her hands as she scooped up the sage plant and hurried to the kitchen. She put the sage plant in one of the few bowls she had, taking it back to the observation room to scoop as much of the dirt off the floor as she could, patting it down around the sage’s roots.

“There,” said Clem, “There, see?”

She wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, the movement reminding her that she was still holding the note. She looked at it again, frowning at the words.

“What sign?” said Clem.

She let out a breath, looking around the room. From the angle she couldn’t see the Divine Fleet or Quite, only the blanket of stars going on forever. Far more than could ever be reached from this observation post. Far more than she could ever visit, even with the escape shuttle-

The escape shuttle.

Clem looked down at the note in her hand, then at the cupboard of emergency space suits, then at the sage plant. She looked back down at the note.

“A sign,” whispered Clem, “I- I see.”

She pulled herself off the floor, clutching the sage plant to her as she rushed to her room. She’d have to leave most of it behind but that was fine. It hadn’t done her much good here either, she’d barely even had cause to open most of the trunks. She hurried back to the observation room, pulling down one of the space suits and then, after a glance at the sage plant, taking another.

“I suppose you’ll need one too, wherever we’re going,” said Clem.

She pried open the escape shuttle door. The air inside was even mustier than the air of the station, but no mind. There was enough of it in the tanks to get her somewhere else, somewhere with colour and fresh air.

Clem pulled the shuttle door tight behind her, grinning at the hiss of the seal, separating her from the station. She flicked on the shuttle lights, the engine, carefully strapping the sage plant into the seat next to her. She paused, frowning down at it for a moment.

The flowers were blooming.

Clem swallowed. “Oh, you- this really  _ is  _ it then, I suppose.”

She strapped herself in, listening to the scraping sound as the shuttle disengaged from the station. She let out a breath, her hands hovering over the controls for a moment.

“This is it.”

There was a jolt as the shuttle took off, leaving that station behind them. Soon, it would just be another point of light. Ahead, a galaxy of colour awaited her.


	12. two things happen (larry & mako & mornings observation)

The bell above the door to The Brink chimed, making Mornings sigh. He had sort of been hoping for a quiet end to his shift, given the heavy lunch rush earlier and the fact that Demani and Gray had taken off early for their anniversary. It was hard to be mad at them for that kind of stuff, but if this customer was a hassle he was definitely going to try.

When he peered into the front of the diner, instead of the one person he expected to see there were two - blue skinned, with identical blonde hair and matching grins. Trouble. Absolutely, definitely, trouble.

Mornings let out a sigh, pushing through the double doors out into the diner. “Hi there, welcome to The Brink. What can I get for you guys?”

“Waffles,” said the two at once.

Any creepy effect it might have had as one of the twins laughed and the other frowned.

“You said you weren’t going to do that,” said the frowning twin.

“I wasn’t!” said the other, still laughing, “I can’t help it if I want the same thing as you. I mean, that’s kind of our whole deal, if you think about it.”

The frowning twin’s eyes flicked to Mornings. “He tricked me into being brothers.”

“We’re not brothers,” said the other gleefully, “We’re the same guy!”

“No we’re not! Stop being ridiculous!”

“I know you are but what am I?”

The frowning twin opened his mouth and then huffed a breath, closing it again. He turned back to Mornings. “I- apologise for my- Look, can we just get two lots of choc chip waffles and coffee?”

“With maple syrup?” said the other.

That was a lot of caffeine and sugar, and Mornings took down the order with dread. He’d known these two for all of five minutes and he could tell that they did  _ not _ need more energy. 

“Coming right up,” said Mornings, taking his chance to disappear back into the kitchen to relay the order.

He watched them through the window as they got their order. They dumped an outrageous amount of maple syrup onto the already-pretty-sweet waffles in sync, they picked up their knives and forks in sync, they chewed, pauseed, and took a sip of coffee in sync. Unlike before, there was no sense of performance to it, no undercurrent of one poking at the other.

One of them, the grinning one Mornings thought, tilted his head, his eyes going distant for a moment as he turned his attention to the holoscreen behind the counter. Mornings could feel as he flicked through the channels at a dizzying speed. Mornings leant away from the doors, closing his eyes so he could better feel the mesh. They were both there, in the The Brink’s system. Just the holoscreen frequency part of it. It felt less like they were unable to scale the various firewalls Mornings has put in place and more like they were both carefully stepping around it.

He felt them settle on what sounded like local news for a planet so far away that Mornings was sure they absolutely should  _ not _ be able to get the transmission. Long shots of a dense forest planet, some kind of weather coverage he thought, the news anchor remarking on the heavy seasonal rain. The mesh around the two vibrated with a tangle of emotions and Mornings retreated, lest he get caught up in it. That was the last thing he needed this afternoon.

“Thanks,” said the frowning one.

The other shrugged, taking a huge bite of waffle.

They both looked up, meeting Mornings’ eyes through the window, raising their eyebrows in tandem. Damn. They must have felt him.

This was confirmed by the prickly-static feeling at the edge of his mind, a kind of mental finger waggle wave. Mornings let out a breath and pushed through the door.

“We don’t get a lot of strati through,” said Mornings, “Just making sure you’re not gonna, y’know, break shit.”

One of them gasped. “We would  _ never _ !” He laughed. “Okay, we would, but only if we wanted something.”

“Right now all we want are these waffles,” said the other.

“They’re pretty good.”

“They’re  _ really _ good! Five stars on cyberyelp!”

“Hack it, make it ten stars,” said the other.

“Yeah!”

“Just the normal amount of stars is fine,” said Mornings, “And, like, tips are pretty much universally appreciated.”

“That is universally true,” said one.

They both turned to their (matching, of course) backpacks, digging around and dumping a handful of coins onto the counter.

“Seriously?” said Mornings.

“Hey!” said one, “That’s like, ten dollars. I mean, I think it is.”

The other began counting, grouping the coins out. Whatever, that would at least keep them out of trouble until Mornings could get them the cheque. He insisted on paper ones for situations like this - even th best strati couldn't hack paper.

At least they didn’t seem inclined to skip out on the bill, messing around with the configurations of the pile of coins that made up their tip over a second cup of coffee. Now they seemed less like a danger and more like two people taking a break from a very long road trip.

“So,” said Mornings, as he scraped the coins into the tip jar, “Where are you two off to cause problems next?”

They both laughed, less in unison and more like a chorus. 

“Wherever the wind takes us!”

“Yeah,” said the other, “we’re following the galactic wind!”

“We’re basically space pirates, at this point-”

“-but cooler.”

“But cooler, exactly.”

“Well watch out for wild space weather I guess,” said Mornings.

“Wild space weather better watch out for  _ us _ !”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” said Mornings.

“It is sometimes, if you’re lucky.”

“And we’re the luckiest!” He paused. “Well, I am.”

“Hey!”

They pushed at each other’s shoulders as they headed out. Mornings watched them through the window, feeling them fade slowly from the mesh around him. He let out a long, slow breath, watching the clock over the door tick over into the end of his shift.

“Back out into the wild space weather,” he said to himself, huffing a laugh. He thought of the rain-drenched planet from the news broadcast they’d pulled in. “Hope it's sunnier, wherever they’re going.”


	13. saplings (fero & clem)

Fero makes a slow loop around the Mark of the Erasure. Samol is around, somewhere. He seemed like he wanted to be by himself for a minute, which, Fero gets that. He wouldn’t have run away to the forest if he didn’t get that. When Samol gets that look to him, Fero does a loop, stopping every so often to clear a patch of weeds or pluck some oranges from one of the trees to take back to Samol.

Today, his feet take to a part of the Mark of the Erasure he hasn’t seen before - or, maybe he has and he just doesn’t recognise it now that it's all covered in sage. The sage is climbing up one of the towers, the scent of it almost more overwhelming than the smell of the new Spring flowers that grow towards the edge of the Mark of the Erasure.

He stops short as he catches sight of a figure. For a second he thinks  _ Samot _ but the person is too small for that, their hair not the right length to match the fresco paintings Fero has seen of that particular god.

“Hey!” says Fero.

The figure turns, looking as surprised to see him as he is to see her.

“Who- who are you?” says the woman.

“I’m Fero,” says Fero, “Who are  _ you _ ?”

“I am Clementine Kesh, sixth in line to the throne of Stel Kesh,” says the woman, the words tumbling out of her in a quick patter.

“Never heard of it,” says Fero, “How did you get here?”

“I was led here by Perennial,” says Clementine.

Fero makes a face. “Pretty weird to be brought here by some sage.”

Clementine gasps, offended. Fero has no idea  _ how _ , but people have that reaction to stuff he says all the time, so he shrugs.

“I was not-” Clementine splutters, “I was brought here by- oh, I don’t know why I even have to explain myself to the likes of  _ you _ -”

“And people say  _ I’m _ rude,” says Fero. He steps forward. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Clearing the weeds,” says Clementine haughtily.

Fero peers over her shoulder. She’s done a decent job of it, a pile of stinging nettles beside her.

“You don’t seem like the kind to actually get your hands dirty.”

Clem scowls. "I don't know why people keep saying that."

“It's probably because you introduce yourself with titles."

“Well, that’s- habit, I suppose." Her expression shifts, something flickering across her features before she shutters it away. "I don't- they're not even really my titles anymore. I'm just Clementine now."

“That’s way better,” says Fero.

“Is it?” says Clementine.

“Oh yeah,” says Fero, “Everyone I’ve ever met who has titles  _ totally _ sucked.”

Clementine snorts and then looks down quickly. She clears her throat. 

“I… perhaps.”

“No they definitely have,” says Fero. He pokes the nettle pile carefully with his foot. “Want a hand?”

Clementine blinks. “I… what?”

“Do you want me to help, y’know, with the weeding?” says Fero.

“You’d really help me?” says Clementine, her eyes a little too wide for the thing Fero’s just offered.

He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I mean, that’s what I’ve been doing anyway.”

Clementine huffs. “I… In that case, I suppose.”

“Wow,” says Fero, “I think you mean  _ thanks _ .”

Even so, he drops to his knees half a pace away from her, picking a patch to start from and beginning the careful work of pulling the nettles from the soil, giving the new sage plants space to grow. They work in silence for a few moments before Clementine speaks again.

“Thank you,” says Clementine, “For helping me.”

“You’re welcome,” says Fero, as brattily as he can manage.

Clementine huffs a breath. “I just meant… I don’t think Perennial has sent you to me, so I don’t expect you to- I think she is trying to teach me something.” She huffs again, closer to a laugh this time. “She always is.”

Fero has no idea who  _ she _ is, but the words remind him of Samol, prompting Fero to speak but always stopping short of demanding it, waiting to offer advice until Fero asks for it.

“Some people are just like that,” says Fero.

“She is  _ not _ just  _ some people _ -”

Fero waves a hand. “I didn’t mean it as like, a bad thing. I’m not  _ against _ learning stuff, I mean, how else is anyone supposed to change if they don’t learn anything?”

Clementine hums. “The wheel turns.”

Fero makes a face. “Sure, I guess.”

He turns back to the sage. It’s begun to bloom, thin purple streaks of it running up the towers above him.

“Wait,” says Fero, “what wheel?”

“Oh, you know,” says Clem, waving a hand, “the wheel.”

"No," says Fero, “ _ What _ wheel?”

“It’s metaphorical,” says Clementine.

“So you don’t know either,” says Fero.

“I do so, I-” Clementine huffs a breath. “It’s, you know. Things change, things move on, things repeat. That sort of thing.”

Fero frowns. “So like reconfiguration?”

“Like- I… suppose?” says Clementine.

“Then just say that,” says Fero. He tugs at a particularly strong nettle. “I am so sick of people talking in metaphor all the time. Like, just  _ say _ what you  _ mean _ .”

“You say that as though it were always easy,” says Clementine.

“It literally is,” says Fero, “You just open your mouth and say it, instead of thinking for like twenty minutes about how to  _ not _ say it.”

“Sometimes you have to talk around something,” says Clementine, “You can’t just go around telling everyone- saying whatever you like.”

“Sure you can!” says Fero, “It’s the easiest thing in the world! And then you don’t have to worry about all the weird bullshit people are trying to put on you-”

“I think you still do,” says Clementine, sitting back on her heels a little to look at him, “or you should, at least.”

“Whatever,” says Fero.

Samol should want to talk to him by now. Fero pulls himself to his feet, wiping the dirt off onto his pants. He points to the pile of nettles. 

“Can I have those?”

Clementine frowns up at him. “What? Why?”

“Nettle tea,” says Fero.

She makes a face. “Tea with  _ nettles _ ?”

Fero shrugs. “I’m not making it for  _ you _ .”

Clementine huffs. “Fine, whatever, yes, you can have the nettles.”

“Thanks-”

“You’re welcome,” says Clementine quickly.

Fero makes a face, carefully scooping up the nettles. Enough for a pot or two, he thinks, maybe enough to help Samol feel a little better for the afternoon. He walks back around the other side of the tower, the scent of sage fading as he heads towards Samol.

Samol smiles when he sees Fero, laughing a little at the nettles.

“I’ll put the kettle on then,” says Samol, “Stay for a cup, since you worked so hard to get 'em.”

  
“I guess,” says Fero, grinning up at him, thoughts of weeds forgotten, “If you  _ insist _ ."

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi: mariusperkins on most places


End file.
